SONGS  AT  THE  START 


BY 

LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY 


'And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 
Without  a  course,  without  a  star, 
But  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven." 

SHELLEY  :   Prometheus  Unbound. 


BOSTON 

CUPPLES,  UPHAM  AND  COMPANY 
1884 


Copyright, 
By  LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY, 

1884. 


C.  J.   PETERS  AND  SOX, 

8TEREOTYPER8  AND  ELECTROTYPERS, 
145  HIGH  STREET. 


ERRATA. 

PAGE  i  o.     Third  line  :  read  haunt  for  haunts. 

PAGE  26.     Tenth  and  eleventh  lines  :  omit  the  word  no. 


M522977 


C.  J.   PETERS  ANT)  8O\, 

8TEREOTYPERS  AND  ELECTROTYPER3, 
145  HIGH  STREET. 


fif'Tif 


FIRST  SLIGHT  OUTCOME  OF  TASTES  TRANSMITTED   BY 
MY    FATHER, 


tocdbclr  to  ^ts  JFrtenU  anto 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


M522977 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

GLOUCESTER  HARBOR 9 

LEONORE 12 

A  BALLAD  OF  METZ 14 

PRIVATE  THEATRICALS 21 

DIVINATION  BY  AN  EASTER  LILY 22 

THE  RIVAL  SINGERS 23 

AFTER  THE  STORM 26 

HEMLOCK  RIVER       28 

ON  ONE  POET  REFUSING  HOMAGE  TO  ANOTHER    ....  29 

BROTHER  BARTHOLOMEW 33 

RESERVE 36 

PATRIOT  CHORUS  ON  THE  EVE  OF  WAR 37 

Lo  AND  Lu 39 

HER  VOICE 42 

AN  EPITAPH 44 

THE  FALCON  AND  THE  LILY 46 

BOSTON,  FROM  THE  BRIDGE 48 

THE  RED  AND  YELLOW  LEAF 49 

"POETE  MY  MAISTER  CHAUCER" 51 

MOUNT  AUBURN  IN  MAY 52 

AMONG  THE  FLAGS 53 

CHILD  AND  FLOWER 54 

5 


6  CONTENTS. 

KNIGHT  FALSTAFF 56 

THE  POET 57 

A  CRIMINAL 59 

ORIENT-BORN 60 

CHARONDAS 62 

CRAZY  MARGARET 65 

To  THE  WINDING  CHARLES 69 

MY  NEIGHBOR 70 

THE  SEA-GULL 73 

LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY 74 

LOVER  LOQUITUR 76 

VITALITY 77 

To  THE  RIVER 78 

THE  SECOND  TIME  THEY  MET 79 

ON  NOT  READING  A  POSTHUMOUS  WORK 81 

BESSY  IN  THE  STORM 83 

AFTER  A  DUEL 85 

INDIFFERENCE 87 

THE  PLEDGING 88 

AT  GETTYSBURG 9° 

EARLY  DEATH 92 

MY  SOPRANO 93 

THE  CROSS  ROADS 94 

"HEART  OF  GOLD" 98 

A  JACOBITE  REVIVAL 100 

SPRING 104 

ADVENTURERS 105 

L'ETIQUETTE 107 

THE  GRAVE  AND  THE  ROSE  no 


SONGS  AT  THE  START. 


SONGS  AT  THE  START, 


GLOUCESTER   HARBOR. 

NORTH  from  the  beautiful  islands, 
North  from  the  headlands  and  highlands, 

The  long  sea-wall, 

The  white  ships  flee  with  the  swallow ; 
The  day-beams  follow  and  follow, 

Glitter  and  fall. 

The  brown  ruddy  children  that  fear  not, 
Lean  over  the  quay,  and  they  hear  not 

Warnings  of  lips ; 

For  their  hearts  go  a-sailing,  a-sailing, 
Out  from  the  wharves  and  the  wailing 

After  the  ships. 

9 


IO  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

Nothing  to  them  is  the  golden 
Curve  of  the  sands,  or  the  olden 

Haunt$  of  the  town  ; 
Little  they  reck  of  the  peaceful 
Chiming  of  bells,  or  the  easeful 

Sport  on  the  down  : 

The  orchards  no  longer  are  cherished ; 
The  charm  of  the  meadow  has  perished : 

Dearer,  ay  me ! 

The  solitude  vast,  unbefriended, 
The  magical  voice  and  the  splendid 

Fierce  will  of  the  sea. 

Beyond  them,  by  ridges  and  narrows 
The  silver  prows  speed  like  the  arrows 

Sudden  and  fair ; 

Like  the  hoofs  of  Al  Borak  the  wondrous, 
Lost  in  the  blue  and  the  thund'rous 

Depths  of  the  air ; 


GLOUCESTER  HARBOR.  II 

On  to  the  central  Atlantic, 

Where  passionate,  hurrying,  frantic 

Elements  meet ; 

To  the  play  and  the  calm  and  commotion 
Of  the  treacherous,  glorious  ocean, 

Cruel  and  sweet. 


In  the  hearts  of  the  children  forever 
She  fashions  their  growing  endeavor, 

The  pitiless  sea ; 

Their  sires  in  her  caverns  she  stayeth, 
The  spirits  that  love  her  she  slayeth, 

And  laughs  in  her  glee. 

Woe,  woe,  for  the  old  fascination  ! 
The  women  make  deep  lamentation 

In  starts  and  in  slips  ; 
Here  always  is  hope  unavailing, 
Here  always  the  dreamers  are  sailing 

After  the  ships  ! 


12 


LEONORE. 

You  scarce  can  mark  her  flying  feet 
Or  bear  her  eyelids'  flash  a  space ; 

Her  passing  by  is  like  the  sweet 
Blown  odor  of  some  tropic  place  ; 

She  has  a  voice,  a  smile  sincere, 

The  blitheness  of  the  nascent  year, 
April's  growth  and  grace  ; 

All  youth,  all  force,  all  fire  and  stress 

In  her  impassioned  gentleness, 

Half  exhortation,  half  caress. 

A  thing  of  peace  and  of  delight,  — 
A  fountain  sparkling  in  the  sun, 

Reflecting  heavenly  shapes  by  night,  — 
Her  moods  thro'  ordered  beauty  run. 


LEONORE. 

Light  be  the  storm  that  she  must  know, 
And  branches  greener  after  snow 

For  hope  to  build  upon ; 
Late  may  the  tear  of  memory  start, 
And  Love,  who  is  her  counterpart, 
Be  tender  with  that  lily-heart ! 


A   BALLAD  OF   METZ. 

LEON  went  to  the  wars, 
True  soul  without  a  stain ; 

First  at  the  trumpet-call, 
Thy  son,  Lorraine ! 

Never  a  mighty  host 

Thrilled  so  with  one  desire; 
Never  a  past  Crusade 

Lit  nobler  fire. 

And  he,  among  the  rest, 

Smote  foemen  in  the  van, — 

No  braver  blood  than  his 
Since  time  began. 

And  mild  and  fond  was  he, 
And  sensitive  as  a  leaf ;  — 


A    BALLAD    OF    METZ. 

Just  Heaven  !  that  he  was  this, 
Is  half  my  grief  ! 

We  followed  where  the  last 

Detachment  led  away, 
At  Metz,  an  evil-starred 

And  bitter  day. 

Some  of  us  had  been  hurt 

In  the  first  hot  assault, 
Yet  wills  were  slackened  not, 

Nor  feet  at  fault. 

We  hurried  on  to  the  front  ; 

Our  banners  were  soiled  and  rent  ; 
Grim  riflemen,  gallants  all, 

Our  captain  sent. 

A  Prussian  lay  by  a  tree 

Rigid  as  ice,  and  pale, 
And  sheltered  out  of  the  reach 

Of  battle-hail. 


1 6  SONGS  AT    THE   START. 

His  cheek  was  hollow  and  white, 
Parched  was  his  purpled  lip  ; 

Tho'  bullets  had  fastened  on 
Their  leaden  grip, 

Tho'  ever  he  gasped  and  called, 
Called  faintly  from  the  rear, 

What  of  it  ?     And  all  in  scorn 
I  closed  mine  ear. 

The  very  colors  he  wore, 

They  burnt  and  bruised  my  sight ; 
The  greater  his  anguish,  so 

Was  my  delight.  • 

We  laughed  a  savage  laugh, 
Who  loved  our  land  too  well, 

Giving  its  enemies  hate 
Unspeakable : 

But  Le"on,  kind  heart,  poor  heart, 
Clutched  me  around  the  arm  ; 


A    BALLAD    OF    METZ. 

"  He  faints  for  water !  "  he  said, 
"  It  were  no  harm 

To  soothe  a  wounded  man 
Already  on  death's  rack." 

He  seized  his  brimming  gourd, 
And  hurried  back. 

The  foeman  grasped  it  quick 

With  wild  eyes,  'neath  whose  lid 

A  coiled  and  viper-like  look 
Glittered  and  hid. 

He  raised  his  shattered  frame 
Up  from  the  grassy  ground, 

And  drank  with  the  loud,  mad  haste 
Of  a  thirsty  hound. 

Leon  knelt  by  his  side, 

One  hand  beneath  his  head ; 

Not  kinder  the  water  than 
The  words  he  said. 


1 8  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

He  rose  and  left  him  so, 

Stretched  on  the  grassy  plot, 

The  viper-like  flame  in  his  eyes 
Alas !  forgot. 

Leon  with  easy  gait 

Strode  on  ;  he  bared  his  hair, 
Swinging  his  army  cap, 

Humming  an  air. 

Just  as  he  neared  the  troops, 
Over  there  by  the  stream  — 

Good  God  !  a  sudden  snap 
And  a  lurid  gleam. 

I  wrenched  my  bandaged  arm 
With  the  horror  of  the  start : 

Le"on  was  low  at  my  feet, 
Shot  thro'  the  heart. 

Do  you  think  an  angel  told 

Whose  hands  the  deed  had  done  ? 


A    BALLAD    OF    METZ. 

To  the  Prussian  we  dashed  back, 
Mute,  every  one. 

Do  you  think  we  stopped  to  curse, 
Or  wailing  feebly,  stood  ? 

Do  you  think  we  spared  who  shed 
A  friend's  sweet  blood  ? 

Ha  !  vengeance  on  the  fiend  : 
We  smote  him  as  if  hired ; 

I  most  of  them,  and  more 
When  they  had  tired. 

I  saw  the  deep  eye  lose 
Its  dastard,  steely  blue : 

I  saw  the  trait'rous  breast 
Pierced  thro'  and  thro*. 

His  musket,  smoking  yet, 

Unhanded,  lay  beside ; 
Three  times  three  thousand  deaths 

That  Prussian  died. 


2<X  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

And  he,  my  brother,  Leon, 

Lies,  too,  upon  the  plain  : 
O  teach  no  more  Christ's  mercy, 

Thy  sons,  Lorraine ! 

[This  incident  actually  befell  a  private  in  a  Massachusetts  volun- 
teer regiment,  belonging  to  the  Fifth  Corps,  at  the  battle  of  Malvern 
Hill.] 


21 


PRIVATE  THEATRICALS. 

You  were  a  haughty  beauty,  Polly, 

(That  was  in  the  play,) 
I  was  the  lover  melancholy  ; 

(That  was  in  the  play.) 
And  when  your  fan  and  you  receded, 
And  all  my  passion  lay  unheeded, 
If  still  with  tenderer  words  I  pleaded, 
That  was  in  the  play ! 

I  met  my  rival  at  the  gateway, 
(That  was  in  the  play,) 
And  so  we  fought  a  duel  straightway ; 

(That  was  in  the  play.) 
But  when  Jack  hurt  my  arm  unduly, 
And  you  rushed  over,  softened  newly, 
And  kissed  me,  Polly !  truly,  truly, 
Was  that  in  the  play  ? 


22 


DIVINATION   BY   AN   EASTER   LILY. 

OUT  of  the  Lenten  gloom  it  springs, 

Out  of  the  wintry  land, 
White  victor-flower  with  breath  of  myrrh, 
Joy's  oracle  and  harbinger  ; 

I  take  it  in  my  hand, 

I  fold  it  to  my  lips,  and  know 

That  death  is  overpast, 
That  blessed  is  thy  glad  release, 
And  thou  with  Christ  art  full  of  peace, 

Dear  heart  in  Heaven  !  at  last. 


THE   RIVAL   SINGERS. 

Two  marvellous  singers  of  old  had  the  city  of 

Florence,  — 
She  that  is  loadstar  of  pilgrims,  Florence  the 

beautiful, — 
Who  sang  but  thro'  bitterest  envy  their  exquisite 

music, 
Each  for  o'ercoming  the  other,  as  fierce  as  the 

seraphs 
At  the  dread  battle  pre-mundane,  together  down- 

.  wrestling. 
And  once  when  the  younger,  surpassing  the  best 

at  a  festival, 
Thrilled   the   impetuous  people,  O  singing   so 

rarely ! 
That  up  on  their  shoulders  they  raised  him,  and 

carried  him  straightway 


24  SONGS   AT    THE   START. 

Over  the  threshold,  'mid  ringing  of  belfries  and 

shouting, 
Till  into  his  pale  cheek   mounted  a  color  like 

morning 
(For  he  was  Saxon  in  blood)  that  made  more 

resplendent 
The  gold  of  his  hair  for  an  aureole  round  and 

above  him, 
Seeing  which,  called  his  adorers  aloud,  thanking 

Heaven 
That  sent  down  an  angel  to  sing  for  them,  taking 

their  homage ;  — 
While  this  came  to  pass  in  the  city,  one  marked 

it,  and  harbored 
A  purpose  which  followed  endlessly  on,  like  his 

shadow. 
Therefore  at  night,  as  a  vine  that  aye  clambering 

stealthily 
Slips  by  the  stones  to  an  opening,  came  the 

assassin, 
And  left  the  deep  sleeper  by  moonlight,  the 

Saxon  hair  dabbled 


THE   RIVAL    SINGERS.  2$ 

With  red,  and  the  brave  voice  smitten  to  death 

in  his  bosom. 

Now  this  was  the  end  of  the  hate  and  the  striv- 
ing and  singing. 

But  the  Italian  thro'  Florence,  his  city  familiar, 
Fared  happily  ever,  none  knowing  the  crime  and 

the  passion, 
Winning  honor  and   guerdon  in  peaceful   and 

prosperous  decades, 
Supreme  over  all,  and  rejoiced  with  the  cheers 

and  the  clanging. 
Carissima !   what  ?   and  you  wonder  the  world 

did  not  loathe  him  ? 
Child,  he  lived  long,  and  was  lauded,  and  died 

very  famous. 


26 


AFTER   THE   STORM. 

I. 
Now  that  the  wind  is  tamed  and  broken, 

And  day  gleams  over  the  lea, 
Row,  row,  for  the  one  you  love 
Was  out  on  the  raging  sea  : 

Row,  row,  row, 

Sturdy  and  brave  o'er  the  treacherous  wave, 
Hope  like  a  beacon  before, 

Row,  sailor,  row 
Out  to  the  sea  from  the  shore ! 

ii. 

O  no,  the  oar  that  was  once  so  merry, 
O  hQ,  but  the  mournful  oar ! 
Row,  row  ;  God  steady  your  arm 
To  the  dark  and  desolate  shore  : 


AFTER    THE    STORM.  2/ 

Row,  row,  row, 

With  your  own  love  dead,  and  her  wet  gold  head 
Laid  there  at  last  on  your  knee, 

Row,  sailor,  row, 
Back  to  the  shore  from  the  sea ! 


28 


HEMLOCK   RIVER. 

ON  that  river,  where  their  will  is, 
Grow  the  tranquil-hearted  lilies  ; 
In  and  out,  with  summer  cadence, 
Brown  o'erbrimming  waters  slide ; 

Shade  is  there  and  mossy  quiet, — 
O  but  go  thou  never  nigh  it ! 
Ghosts  of  three  unhappy  maidens 
Float  upon  its  bosom  wide. 


29 


ON  ONE  POET  REFUSING  HOMAGE  TO 
ANOTHER. 

A  NAME  all  read  and  many  rue 
Chanced  on  the  idle  talk  of  two  ; 
I  saw  the  listener  doubt  and  falter 
Till  came  the  rash  reproof  anew. 

Then  on  his  breath  arose  a  sigh, 
And  in  the  flashes  of  reply 
I  saw  the  great  indignant  shower 
Surcharge  the  azure  of  his  eye. 

Said  he  :  "'Neath  our  accord  intense 
At  mutual  shrines  of  soul  and  sense, 
Flows,  like  a  subterraneous  river, 
This  last  and  only  difference. 


3<D  SONGS  AT    THE    START. 

"  Behold,  I  am  with  anguish  torn 
That  you  should  name  his  name  in  scorn, 
And  use  it  as  an  April  flower 
Plucked  from  his  grave  and  falsely  worn  : 

"  Thrice  better  his  renown  were  not ! 
And  he  in  silence  lay  forgot, 
Than  to  exhale  a  strife  unending 
Should  be  his  gentle  memory's  lot. 

"  How  can  you,  freedom  in  your  reach, 
Nurse  your  high  thought  on  others'  speech, 
And  follow  after  brawling  critics 
Reiterating  blame  with  each  ? 

"The  world's  ill  judgments  roll  and  roll 
Nor  touch  that  shy,  evasive  soul, 
Whose  every  tangled  hour  of  living 
God  draws  to  issues  fair  and  whole. 

"  It  grieves  me  less  that,  purely  good, 
His  aims  are  darkly  understood, 


REFUSING    HOMAGE.  31 

Than  that  your  spirit  jars  unkindly 
Against  its  golden  brotherhood. 

"  Et  tu,  Brute  !     Where  he  hath  flown 
On  kindred  wing  you  cross  the  zone, 
And  yet  for  hate,  thro'  lack  of  knowing, 
Austerely  misconstrue  your  own. 

"  No  closer  wave  and  wave  at  sea 
Than  he  and  you  for  grace  should  be ; 
I  would  endure  the  chains  of  bondage 
That  you  might  share  this  truth  with  me ! 

"  A  leaf's  light  strength  should  break  the  wind, 
Ere  my  desire,  your  wilful  mind ; 
If  I  should  waste  my  lips  in  pleading, 
Or  drain  my  heart,  you  still  were  blind, 

"  Still  warring  on  the  citadels 
Of  Truth  remotely,  till  her  bells 
Rouse  me,  your  friend,  to  old  defiance, — 
Tho'  dear  you  be  in  all  things  else, — 


32  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

"And  tho'  my  hope  the  day-star  is 
Of  broadening  eternities, 
Wherein,  the  shadows  cleared  forever, 
Your  cordial  hand  shall  rest  in  his." 


33 


BROTHER   BARTHOLOMEW. 

BROTHER  BARTHOLOMEW,  working-time, 
Would  fall  into  musing  and  drop  his  tools ; 

Brother  Bartholomew  cared  for  rhyme 
More  than  for  theses  of  the  schools ; 

And  sighed,  and  took  up  his  burden  so, 

Vowed  to  the  Muses,  for  weal  or  woe. 

At  matins  he  sat,  the  book  on  his  knees, 
But  his  thoughts  were  wandering  far  away ; 

And  chanted  the  evening  litanies 

Watching  the  roseate  skies  grow  gray, 

Watching  the  brightening  starry  host 

Flame  like  the  tongues  at  Pentecost. 

"  A  foolish  dreamer,  and  nothing  more ; 
The  idlest  fellow  a  cell  could  hold  ; " 


34  SONGS    AT    THE    START. 

So  murmured  the  worthy  Isidor, 

Prior  of  ancient  Nithiswold  ; 
Yet  pitiful,  with  dispraise  content, 
Signed  never  the  culprit's  banishment. 

Meanwhile  Bartholomew  went  his  way 
And  patiently  wrote  in  his  sunny  cell ; 

His  pen  fast  travelled  from  day  to  day ; 
His  books  were  covered,  the  walls  as  well. 

"But  O  for  the  monk  that  I  miss, instead 

Of  this  listless  rhymer !  "  the  Prior  said. 

Bartholomew  dying,  as  mortals  must, 
Not  unbelov'd  of  the  cowled  throng, 

Thereafter,  they  took  from  the  dark  and  dust 
Of  shelves  and  of  corners,  many  a  song 

That  cried  loud,  loud  to  the  farthest  day, 

How  a  bard  had  arisen,  —  and  passed  away. 

Wonderful  verses!  fair  and  fine, 
Rich  in  the  old  Greek  loveliness ; 


BROTHER  BARTHOLOMEW.  35 

The  seer-like  vision,  half  divine  ; 

Pathos  and  merriment  in  excess. 
And  every  perfect  stanza  told 
Of  love  and  of  labor  manifold. 

The  King  came  out  and  stood  beside 
Bartholomew's  taper-lighted  bier, 

And  turning  to  his  lords,  he  sighed  : 

"  How  worn  and  wearied  doth  he  appear, — 

Our  noble  poet,  —  now  he  is  dead  !  " 

"O  tireless  worker  !  "  the  Prior  said. 


RESERVE. 

You  that  are  dear,  O  you  above  the  rest ! 
Forgive  him  his  evasive  moods  and  cold ; 
The  absence  that  belied  him  oft  of  old, 
The  war  upon  sad  speech,  the  desperate  jest, 
And  pity's  wildest  gush  but  half-confessed, 
Forgive  him  !     Let  your  gentle  memories  hold 
Some  written  word  once  tender  and  once  bold, 
Or  service  done  shamefacedly  at  best, 
Whereby  to  judge  him.     All  his  days  he  spentj 
Like  one  who  with  an  angel  wrestled  well, 
O'ermastering  Love  with  show  of  light  disdain ; 
And  whatsoe'er  your  spirits  underwent, 
He,  wounded  for  you,  worked  no  miracle 
To  make  his  heart's  allegiance  wholly  plain. 


37 


PATRIOT   CHORUS   ON   THE  EVE  OF 
WAR. 

IN  thy  holy  need,  our  country, 
Shatter  other  idols  straightway ; 
Quench  our  household  fires  before  us, 
Reap  the  pomp  of  harvests  low ; 
Strike  aside  each  glad  ambition 
Born  of  youth  and  golden  leisure, 
Leave  us  only  to  remember 
Faith  we  swore  thee  long  ago ! 

All  the  passionate  sweep  of  heart-strings, 

Thirst  and  famine,  din  of  battle, 

All  the  wild  despair  and  sorrow 

That  were  ever  or  shall  be, 

Are  too  little,  are  too  worthless, 

Laid  along  thine  upward  pathway 


38  SONGS  AT  THE  START. 

As  with  our  souls'  strength  we  lay  them, 
Stepping-stones,  O  Love  !  for  thee. 

If  we  be  thy  burden-bearers, 
Let  us  ease  thee  of  thy  sorrow ; 
If  our  hands  be  thine  avengers, 
Life  or  death,  they  shall  not  fail ; 
If  thy  heart  be  just  and  tender, 
Wrong  us  not  with  hesitation : 
Take  us,  trust  us,  lead  us,  love  us, 
Till  the  eternal  Truth  prevail ! 


39 


LO   AND   LU. 

« 

WHEN  we  began  this  never-ended 

Kind  companionship, 
Childish  greetings  lit  the  splendid 

Laughter  at  the  lip  ; 
You  were  ten  and  I  eleven  ; 

Henceforth,  as  we  knew, 
Was  all  the  mischief  under  heaven 

Set  down  to  Lo  and  Lu. 


Long  we  fought  and  cooed  together, 
Held  an  equal  reign, 

Snowballs  could  we  fire  and  gather, 
Twine  a  clover  chain  ; 

Sing  in  G  an  A  flat  chorus 

'Mid  the  tuneful  crew, — 


4O  SONGS  AT   THE  START. 

No  harmonious  angels  o'er  us 
Taught  us,  Lo  or  Lu. 


Pleasant  studious  times  have  seen  us 

Arm-in-arm  of  yore, 
Learned  books,  well-thumbed  between  us, 

Spread  along  the  floor  ; 
Perched  in  pine-tops,  sunk  in  barley, 

Rogues,  where  rogues  were  few, 
Right  or  wrong,  in  deed  and  parley, 

Comrades,  Lo  and  Lu. 

Which  could  leap  where  banks  were  wider, 

Mock  the  cat-bird's  call  ? 
Which  preside  and  pop  the  cider 

At  a  festival  ? 
Who  became  the  finer  Stoic 

Stabbing  trouble  thro', 
Thrilled  to  hear  of  things  heroic 

Oftener,  Lo  or  Lu  ? 


LO  AND  LU.  41 

Earliest,  blithest !  then  and  ever 

Mirror  of  my  heart ! 
Grow  we  old  and  wise  and  clever 

Now,  so  far  apart ; 
Still  as  tender  as  a  mother's 

Floats  our  prayer  for  two  ; 
Neither  yet  can  spare  the  other's 

"  God  bless  —  Lo  and  Lu  !  " 


HER  VOICE. 

A  LARK  from  cloud  to  cloud  along 
In  wildest  labyrinths  of  song, — 
So  jubilant  and  proud  and  strong  ; 

A  ray  that  climbs  the  garden  wall 
And  leaps  the  height  at  evenfall,  — 
So  clear,  so  faint,  so  mystical ; 

A  summer  fragrance  on  the  breeze, 
A  shower  upon  the  lilied  leas, 
A  sunburst  over  violet  seas, 

A  wand  of  light,  a  fairy  spell 
Beyond  a  faltering  lip  to  tell ; 
Bright  Music's  perfect  miracle. 


HER   VOICE.  43 

Still  live  the  gift  outrunning  praise, 
Inviolate  from  this  earthly  place 
And  fitly  pure  for  heavenly  days, 

Sincerity  its  stay  and  guard, 

A  glowing  nature,  happy-starred, 

Its  dwelling  now  and  afterward ! 

Where'er  that  gentle  heart  shall  be, 
Responsive  to  their  source  I  see 
The  fount  and  form  of  melody ; 

And  my  foreshadowed  spirit  drawn 
Of  hindrance  free,  and  unforlorn, 
To  list  thro'  some  ambrosial  dawn, 

To  follow  with  oblivious  eyes 
The  old  delight,  the  fresh  surprise, 
Adown  the  glades  of  Paradise  ! 


44 


AN  EPITAPH. 

FUGITIVE  to  nobler  air, 
Dead  avow  thee  who  shall  dare  ? 
Freeborn  spirit,  eagle  heart, 
Full  of  life  thou  wert  and  art ! 
Tender  was  thy  glance,  and  bland  ; 
Honor  swayed  thy  giving  hand ; 
Sweet  as  fragrance  on  the  sense 
Stole  thy  rich  intelligence, 
And  thy  coming,  like  the  spring, 
Moved  the  saddest  lips  to  sing. 

Wealth  above  all  argosies ! 
Sunshine  of  our  drooping  eyes  ! 
Be  to  Heaven,  for  Heaven's  desert, 
Fair  as  unto  us  thou  wert. 


AN  EPITAPH.  45 

Tho*  the  groping  breezes  moan 
Here  about  thy  burial-stone, 
Never  sorrow's  lightest  breath 
Links  thy  happy  name  with  death, 
Lest  therein  our  love  should  be, 
Thou  that  livest !  false  to  thee. 


THE   FALCON   AND   THE   LILY. 

MY  darling  rides  across  the  sand  ; 
The  wind  is  warm,  the  wind  is  bland ; 
It  lifts  the  pony's  glossy  mane, 
So  light  and  proud  she  holds  his  rein. 
Not  easier  bears  a  leaf  the  dew 
Than  she  her  scarf  and  kirtle  blue, 
And  on  her  wrist,  in  bells  and  jess, 
The  falcon  perched  for  idleness. 
That  merry  bird,  O  would  I  were ! 
In  joy  with  her,  in  joy  with  her. 

My  darling  comes  not  from  her  bower, 
The  lowered  pennon  sweeps  the  tower ; 
The  larches  droop  their  tassels  low, 
And  bells  are  marshalled  to  and  fro. 


THE  FALCON  AND    THE  LILY.  47 

My  heart,  my  heart,  beholds  her  now, 
The  pallid  hands,  the  saintly  brow, 
The  lily  with  chill  death  oppressed 
Against  the  summer  of  her  breast : 
That  lily  pale,  O  would  I  were ! 
In  peace  with  her,  in  peace  with  her. 


BOSTON,  FROM   THE   BRIDGE. 

THIS  night  my  heart's  world-roaming  dreams  are 

met, 

The  while  I  gaze  across  the  river-brim, 
Beyond  the  anchored  ships  with  cordage  dim, 
To  the  clear  lights,  that  like  a  coronet 
On  thee,  my  noble  city,  nobly  set, 
Along  thy  summits  trail  their  golden  rim. 
Peril  forsake  thee  !  so  shall  peal  my  hymn  ; 
Glory  betide  thee  !     Nor  may  men  forget, 
Shelter  of  scholars,  poets,  artisans  ! 
The  sap  that  filled  the  perfect  vein  of  Greece, 
And  hung  with  bloom  her  fair,  illustrious  tree, 
Unheeded,  thro'  dull  eras  made  advance, 
Unfruitful,  stole  to  topmost  boughs  in  peace 
Twice  centuries  twelve ;  and  flowered  again  in 

thee. 


49 


THE   RED   AND   YELLOW   LEAF. 

THE  red  and  yellow  leaf 
Came  down  upon  the  wind, 
Across  the  ripened  grain  ; 
The  red  and  yellow  leaf, 
Before  me  and  behind, 
Sang  shrilly  in  my  brain  : 

"  Pride  and  growth  of  spring, 
Ease,  and  olden  cheer, 
Shall  no  Ignger  be  : 
What  benighted  thing, 
Dreamer,  dost  thou  here  ? 
Follow,  follow  me ! 

"  Youth  is  done,  and  skill ; 
What  is  any  trust 


5O  SONGS  AT  THE  START. 

Any  more  to  thee  ? 
Pale  thou  art  and  chill ; 
All  of  love  is  dust : 
Follow,  follow  me  !  " 

"  Thou  red  and  yellow  leaf, 

0  whither?"  from  my  staff 

1  called  adown  the  wind  ; 
The  red  and  yellow  leaf, 

I  heard  its  mocking  laugh 
Before  me  and  behind  ! 


Si 


"POETE   MY   MAISTER   CHAUCER."* 

SOMEWHERE,  sometime,  I  walked  a  field  wherein 
The  daisies  held  high  festival  in  white, 
Thinking  :  Alas  !  he  with  a  young  delight 
Among  them  once  his  golden  web  did  spin ; 
He  who  made  half-divine  an  olden  inn, 
The  Tabard  ;  sung  of  Ariadne  bright, 
And  penned  of  Sarra's  king  at  fall  of  night, 
"  Where  now  I  leave,  there  will  I  fresh  begin." 
Then  straightway  heard  I  merry  laughter  rise 
From  one  that  wrote,  thrown  on  a  daisy-bed, 
Who,  seeing  the  two-fold  wonder  in  mine  eyes, 
Spake,  lifting  up  his  fair  and  reverend  head : 
"  Child  !  this  is  the  earth-completing  Paradise, 
And  thou,  that  strayest  here,  art  centuries  dead." 

*  Lydgate  so  calls  him, 

.  ..."  of  righte  and  equitie, 
Since  he  in  Englishe  in  rhyming  was  the  beste." 


MOUNT   AUBURN   IN   MAY. 

THIS  is  earth's  liberty-day : 
Yonder  the  linden-trees  sway 

To  music  of  winds  from  the  west, 
And  I  hear  the  old  merry  refrain, 
Of  the  stream  that  has  broken  its  chain 

By  the  gates  of  the  City  of  Rest, 

The  City  whose  exquisite  towers 
I  see  thro'  the  sunny  long  hours 

If  but  from  my  window  I  lean  ; 
Yea,  dearest !  thy  threshold  of  stone, 
Thine  ivy-grown  door  and  my  own 

Have  naught  save  the  river  between. 

Thine  on  that  heavenly  height 

Are  beauty,  and  warmth,  and  delight ; 

And  long  as  our  parting  shall  be, 
Live  there  in  thy  summer !  nor  know 
How  near  lie  the  frost  and  the  snow 

On  hearts  that  are  breaking  for  thee. 


53 


AMONG   THE   FLAGS 

IN   DORIC    HALL,    MASSACHUSETTS    STATE    HOUSE. 

DEAR  witnesses,  all  luminous,  eloquent, 

Stacked  thickly  on  the  tesselated  floor ! 

The  soldier-blood  stirs  in  me,  as  of  yore 

In  sire  and  grandsire  who  to  battle  went : 

I  seem  to  know  the  shaded  valley  tent, 

The  armed  and  bearded  men,  the  thrill  of  war, 

Horses  that  prance  to  hear  the  cannon  roar, 

Shrill  bugle-calls,  and  camp-fire  merriment. 

And  as  fair  symbols  of  heroic  things, 

Not  void  of  tears  mine  eyes  must  e'en  behold 

These  banners  lovelier  as  the  deeper  marred : 

A  panegyric  never  writ  for  kings 

On  every  tarnished  staff  and  tattered  fold  ; 

And  by  them,  tranquil  spirits  standing  guard. 


54 


CHILD   AND   FLOWER. 

[From  the  French  of  Chateaubriand.]* 

ALONG  her  coffin-lid  the  spotless  roses  rest 
A  father's  sad,  sad  hand  culled  from  a  happy 

bower ; 

Earth,  they  were  born  of  thee  :  take  back  upon 
thy  breast 

Young  child  and  tender  flower. 

To  this  unhallowed  world,  ah !  let  them  not  re- 
turn, 
To  this  dark  world  where  grief  and  sin  and 

anguish  lower ; 

The  winds  might  wound  and  break,  the  sun  might 
parch  and  burn 

Young  child  and  tender  flower. 

*  The  author's  title  runs:  "Sur  la  Fille  de  mon  Ami,  enterree 
devant  moi  hier  au  Cimetiere  de  Passy :  16  Juin,  1832." 


CHILD  AND  FLOWER.  55 

Thou  sleepest,  O  Elise  !  thy  years  were  brief  and 

bright ; 
The   burden   and    the   heat    are   spared  thy 

noonday  hour  ; 

For  dewy  morn   has  flown,  and  on   its  pinions 
light, 

Young  child  and  tender  flower. 


KNIGHT   FALSTAFF. 

I  SAW  the  dusty  curtain,  ages  old, 

Its  purple  tatters  twitched  aside,  and  lo ! 

The  fourth  King  Harry's  reign  in  lusty  show 

Behind,  its  deeds  in  living  file  outrolled 

Of  peace  and  war ;  some  sage,  some  mad,  and 

bold : 

Last,  near  a  tree,  a  bridled  neighing  row 
With  latest  spoils  encumbered,  saints  do  know, 
By  Hal  and  Hal's  boon  cronies ;  on  the  wold 
Laughter  of  prince  and  commons ;  there  and  here 
Travellers  fleeing  ;  drunken  thieves  that  sang  ; 
Wild  bells  ;  a  tavern's  echoing  jolly  shout ; 
Signals  along  the  highway,  full  of  cheer ; 
A  gate  that  closed  with  not  incautious  clang, 
When  that  sweet  rogue,  bad  Jack  !  came  lumber- 
ing out. 


57 


THE   POET.* 

LISTEN  !  the  mother 
Croons  o'er  her  darling ; 
Birds  to  the  summer 
Call  from  the  trees  ; 
Sailors  in  chorus 
Chant  of  the  ocean  : 
The  poet's  heart  singeth 
Songs  sweeter  than  these. 

Thy  lute,  gentle  lover, 
To  her  thou  adorest ; 
Ye  troubadours !  paeans 
For  princes  of  Guelph  : 

*  For  this  trifle,  obligations  are  due  to  Maestro  Mozart.  A  sunny 
little  opening  Andante  of  his,  from  the  Second  Sonata  in  A  major,  sug- 
gested immediately  and  quite  irresistibly  the  words  here  appended, 
which  follow  its  rhythm  throughout. 


5 8  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

But  Heaven's  own  harpers 
Breathe  not  in  their  music 
The  song  that  his  happy  heart 

Sings  to  itself; 
The  changeless,  soft  song  that  it 

Sings  to  itself! 


59 


A   CRIMINAL.     1865. 

"  CLOSE  as  a  mask  he  wore  this  fiery  sin 
Of  hate  ;  and  daring  peril  foremost,  died 
Ere  yet  the  wrath  of  law  was  justified, 
Hopeless,  with  memory  such  as  miscreants  win. 
One  sacred  head  he  smote,  encircled  in 
A  people's  arms  ;  and  shook,  with  storms  allied, 
The  pillars  of  the  world  from  side  to  side."  .  . . 
E'en  so  the  Angel's  record  must  begin. 
Show  me  not  anguish  since  that  traitor-stroke 
Rang  o'er  the  brunt  of  war ;  yet  child,  O  child  ! 
When  later  days  bring  bitter  thoughts,  recall, 
No  maledictions  on  his  name  I  spoke, 
Catching  lost  cues  ;  but  asked,  well-reconciled, 
God,  our  Interpreter,  to  right  us  all. 


6o 


ORIENT-BORN. 

BEAUTIFUL  olive-brown  brows,  chin  where  the 

fairy-print  lies  ; 
Vagrant  dark  tresses  above  splendid  mysterious 

eyes; 

Mellowest  fires  that  glow  under  the  calm  of  her 

face, 
Girl  of  all  girls  in  the  world  for  mould  and  for 

color  and  grace. 

Such  are  the  opal-like  maids  that   flash  in  the 

groves  to  and  fro, 
Dancers  Arabian  ;  such,  languorous  ages  ago, 


OK  I  EN  T-BORN.  6 1 

Ptolemy's  daughter ;    and    so,   breathing   faint 

cassia  and  musk, 
Veiled   young  Moors  on  divans,    singing    and 

sighing  at  dusk. 

Never  in  opiate  dreams  have  I  o'ertaken  you, 

sweet ; 
Never   with   henna-tipped   hands ;    never   with 

silken-shod  feet ; 

Still  the  love-charm  of  the  East  must  over  and 

over  be  told  : 
By-and-by  havoc  with   hearts!  .  .  .  Ah,  slowly, 

my  seven-year-old ! 


62 


CHARONDAS. 

HE  lifted  his  forehead,  and  stood  at  his  height, 
And  gathered  the  cloak  round  his  noble  age, 

This  man,  the  law-giver,  Charondas  the  Greek  ; 

And  loud  the  Euboeans  called  to  him  :  "  Speak, 
We  listen  and  learn,  O  sage !  " 

"  In  peace  shall  ye  come  where  the  people  be," 
Spake  the  lofty  figure  with  flashing  eyes : 

"  But  whoso  comes  armed  to  the  public  hall 

Shall  suffer  his  death  before  us  all." 
And  the  hearers  believed  him  wise. 

The  years    sped  quick  and  the  years  dragged 

slow  ; 
In  council  oft  was  the  throng  arrayed, 


CHARONDAS.  63 

But  never  the  statued  chamber  saw 
The  gleam  of  a  weapon  ;  for  loving  the  law, 
The  Greeks  from  their  hearts  obeyed. 

War's  challenge  knocked  at  the  city  gates  ; 

Students  flocked  to  the  front,  grown  bold ; 
The  strong  men,  girded,  faced  up  to  the  north ; 
The  women  wept  to  the  gods  ;  and  forth 

Went  the  brave  of  the  days  of  old. 

Peace  winged  her  flight  to  the  city  gates ; 

Young  men  and  strong,  they  followed  fast 
Back  to  the  breast  of  their  fair,  free  land : 
Charondas,  afar  on  the  foreign  strand, 

Remained  at  his  post  the  last. 

Their  leader  he,  in  war  as  in  word, 

The  fire  of  youth  for  his  life-long  lease, 

The  strength  of  Mars  in  the  arm  that  stood 

Seven  hot  decades  upheld  for  good 
In  the  turbulent  courts  of  Greece. 


64  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

The  fight  is  finished,  the  council  meets. 

Who  is  the  tardy  comer  without 
In  cuirass  and  shield,  and  with  clanking  sword, 
Who  strides  up  the  aisles  without  a  word, 

Rousing  that  awe-struck  shout  ? 

The  tardy  comer  home  from  the  field  — 

Great  gods  !  the  first  to  forget  and  belie 
The  law  he  honored,  the  law  he  formed  : 
"  Charondas  —  stand  !  you  enter  armed," 
With  a  shudder  the  hundreds  cry. 

The  men  who  loved  him  on  every  side, 
The  men  he  led  to  the  victor's  gain, 

He  paused  a  moment,  the  fearless  Greek ; 

A  sudden  glow  on  his  ashen  cheek, 
A  sudden  thought  in  his  brain. 

"  I  seal  the  law  with  my  soul  and  might : 
I  do  not  break  it,"  Charondas  said. 

He  raised  his  blade,  and  plunged  to  the  hilt. 

Ah  !  vain  their  rush,  for  in  glory  and  guilt, 
He  lay  on  the  marble,  dead. 


CRAZY   MARGARET. 

THAT  is  she  across  the  way, 
Dressed  as  for  a  holiday, 
Wandering  aimlessly  along 
In  oblivion  of  the  throng, 
With  her  lay  of  old  regret ; 
That  is  crazy  Margaret. 

And  her  tale  floats  up  and  down 
This  enchanted  Norman  town, 
Told  among  the  wharves  and  ships, 
On  the  children's  babbling  lips, 
Over  gossips'  window-sills, 
In  the  rectory,  thro'  the  mills. 


66  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

Very  sad  and  very  brief, 

Graven  on  a  cypress  leaf, 

Is  the  record  of  her  days. 

When  the  aloes  were  ablaze 

Long  ago,  in  summertide, 

He  maid  Margaret  cherished,  died. 

Hush  !  there  is  the  holier  part  : 
He  knew  nothing  of  her  heart. 
Tears  thrilled  in  her  lustrous  eye 
But  to  see  him  passing  by, 
And  she  turned  from  many  a  claim 
Dreaming  on  that  dearest  name. 

Solely  on  his  thoughts  intent 
The  rapt  student  came  and  went, 
All  the  gladness  in  his  looks 
Sprung  from  visions  and  from  books, 
Grave  with  all,  and  kind  to  her, 
His  meek  peasant  worshipper. 


CRAZY  MARGARET. 

So  she  loved  him  to  the  last, 
Keeping  her  soul's  secret  fast, 
Suffering  much  and  speaking  naught 
Of  the  woe  her  loving  wrought ; 
Till  the  second  summertide, 
The  young  stranger  drooped  and  died. 

At  the  grave,  before  them  all, 

In  the  market,  in  the  hall, 

Down  the  forest-paths  alone, 

Ever  since,  in  undertone 

She  goes  singing  soft  and  slow : 

"When  I  meet  him,  he  shall  knovw." 

Therefore  is  she  eager  yet, 
Poor,  unhappy  Margaret, 
Holding  still,  in  faith  and  truth, 
The  lost  idyl  of  her  youth, 
Seeking  fondly  and  thro'  tears, 
One  who  sleeps  these  forty  years. 


68  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

Should  he  haunt  our  Norman  coast, 
Should  he  come,  the  gentle  ghost ; 
Should  she  tell  him  of  her  pain, 
Of  her  passion  hushed  and  vain,  — 
Would  he  grieve  ?  or  would  he  care  ? 
What  a  tragic  chance  is  there  ! 


TO   THE   WINDING   CHARLES. 

THOU  wanderer,  what  longing  hath 
Thee  peace  on  earth  denied, 

Ah,  tell  me :  constant  in  no  path, 
Thy  pensive  currents  glide. 

From  dim  pursuit  and  mocking  zest, 
Would  I  could  set  thee  free ! 

My  soul  hath  its  divine  unrest, 
Dear  river,  like  to  thee. 


MY   NEIGHBOR.* 

WHO  art  thou  that  nigh  to  me 
Alone  dost  dwell,  perpetually  ? 
The  latch  against  thy  door  is  mute, 
I  have  not  heard  thy  kind  salute, 
And  though  I  live  here  at  the  gate, 
Have  never  known  thy  birth  or  state, 
Nor  seen  thy  wide  colonial  lands 
With  slaves  obeying  all  commands, 
Or  children  playing  at  thy  knee  ; 
Ah,  neighbor  mine,  unneighborly  ! 

The  sun  beats  hard  upon  thy  roof, 
The  tree's  cool  shadow  waves  aloof ; 

*  Jacob  Sheaf e,  an  old  Boston  worthy,  laid  away  in  1658,  in  a  quiet 
northerly  corner  of  King's  Chapel  Burying-Ground. 


MY  NEIGHBOR.  7 1 

Thou  dost  not  heed,  nor  speak  in  ire, 
Nor  wound  thy  calm  with  vain  desire. 
The  cones  that  patter  as  they  fall, 
The  drifts  that  build  thine  outer  wall, 
The  rains  that  glisten  in  the  trace 
Of  thine  inscription,  dimmed  apace, 
The  winds  that  blow,  the  birds  that  sing, — 
Thou  carest  not  for  any  thing ! 


Two  centuries  and  more  art  thou 

In  solitude  abiding  ;  now 

This  town  is  other  than  thy  town ; 

Its  lanes  are  highways  broad  and  brown ; 

The  oaken  houses  of  thy  day, 

And  inns,  and' booths,  are  swept  away. 

Strange  spires  would  meet  thine  eager  eye, 

New  ships  sail  in,  new  banners  fly ; 

And  names  are  kept  of  them  that  fell 

In  wars  to  thee  incredible. 


72  SONGS  AT    THE    START. 

How  beautiful  thine  endless  rest ! 
The  quiet  conscience  in  thy  breast, 
Thy  hidden  place  of  peace,  where  pass 
The  ghost-like  stirrings  of  the  grass  ; 
The  long  immunity  from  strife, 
The  tumult,  love  ;  the  trouble,  life  ; 
The  blossom  at  thy  feet,  to  be 
A  thousand  summers,  dust  like  thee ; 
The  winding-sheet,  that  white  as  worth, 
Shuts  all.  thy  failings  in  the  earth. 

My  silent  neighbor !  thou  and  I 

Keep  unobtrusive  company. 

For  us  each  wild  October  weaves 

The  glistening  clouds,  the  glowing  leaves, 

And  March  by  March  the  robin  sings, 

Against  the  solemn  porch  of  King's, 

His  sweet  good-morrow  to  us  both. 

O  be  not  harsh  with  me,  nor  wroth, 

That  I,  apart  from  all  the  throng, 

Break,  too,  thy  silence  with  a  song ! 


73 


THE  SEA-GULL. 

OVER  the  ships  that  are  anchored, 

Over  the  fleets  that  part, 
Over  the  cities  dark  by  the  shore, 

High  as  a  dream  thou  art ! 

Beautiful  is  thy  coming, 

Light  is  thy  wing  as  it  goes ; 
And  O  but  to  leap  and  follow  this  hour 

Thy  perfect  flight  to  the  close, 

O  but  to  leap  and  follow 

Where  freedom  and  rest  may  be  ; 
Where  the  soul  that  I  loved  in  surpassing  love 

Hath  vanished  away,  with  thee ! 


74 


LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY. 

DARLING  of  the  cloistered  flowers, 
Rising  meekly  after  showers, 

Every  cup  a  waving  censer,  — 
Winds  are  softer  at  thy  coming ; 
By  thee  goes  the  wild  bee,  humming 

Music  richer  and  intenser. 

Indian  balsam  is  thy  breathing, 
Sabbath  stillness  thy  enwreathing ; 

Peace  and  thee  no  thought  can  sever. 
In  thy  plaintive  looks  and  tender, 
Things  of  long-forgotten  splendor 

Thrill  my  inmost  spirit  ever. 

And  I  love  thee  in  such  fashion, 
With  so  much  of  truth  and  passion, 
In  this  sad  wish  to  enshrine  thee : 


LIL  Y-OF-  THE-  VALLE  Y.  75 

Only  pure  hearts  be  thy  wearers, 
Only  gentlest  hands  thy  bearers, 
Even  if  therefore  mine  resign  thee  ; 

Even  if  now  I  yield  thee  wholly 
To  the  pure  and  gentle  solely, 

On  whose  breast  thy  cheek  is  lying ! 
Droop  and  glisten  where  she  laid  thee, 
And  remember  me  that  made  thee, 

Dear,  so  happy  in  thy  dying. 


LOVER   LOQUITUR. 

LIEGE  lady  !  believe  me, 

All  night,  from  my  pillow 
I  heard,  but  to  grieve  me, 

The  plash  of  the  willow  ; 
The  rain  on  the  towers, 

The  winds  without  number, 
In  the  gloom  of  the  hours, 

And  denial  of  slumber : 

And  nigh  to  the  dawning,  — 

My  heart  aching  blindly, 
Unresting  and  mourning 

That  you  were  unkindly  — 
What  did  I  ostensibly, 

Ah,  what  under  heaven, 
Liege  lady !  but  sensibly 

Doze  till  eleven  ? 


77 


VITALITY. 

WHEN  I  was  born  and  wheeled  upon  my  way, 

As  fire  in  stars  my  ready  life  did  glow, 

And  thrill  me  thro',  and  mount  to  lips  and  lids 

I  was  as  dead  when  I  died  yesterday 

As  those  mild  shapes  Egyptian,  that  we  know 

Since  Memnon  sang,  are  housed  in  pyramids. 


TO   THE   RIVER. 

FRIEND  CHARLES  !  'tis  long  since  even  for  a  space 
We  stood  in  cordial  parley :  you  and  I, 
(Albeit  about  the  selfsame  city  lie 
The  daily  orbits  we  in  silence  pace),  . 
Seldom,  how  seldom,  see  each  other's  face  ! 
Always  had  you  a  mill  to  turn  near  by, 
A  race  to  aid  ;  and  I,  with  scarce  a  sigh, 
Passed,  on  like  duties  bound  with  heavy  grace. 
But  now  good  Leisure  puts  all  things  in  tune, 
Now  o'er  their  brimming  bowls  in  odorous  whiff 
The  gods  send  up  the  clouds  above  us  curled, 
Let  us  go  forth,  my  Charles !  thro'  fields  of  June 
Together,  gladly,  lovingly,  as  if 
We  could  not  have  enough  of  this  sweet  world. 


79 


THE   SECOND   TIME   THEY   MET. 

"On,  would  I  might  see  my  love,"  sang  he, 
As  he  dreamed  in  his  true  heart  of  her, 

As  he  rode  that  day  up  the  highway  wide, 

With  his  feathers  gay,  and  the  lute  at  his  side  ; 

"  Oh,  would  I  might  see  my  love,"  sang  he, 
"  My  love  that  knows  not  I  love  her." 


"  Oh,  would  I  might  see  my  love,"  sang  she, 
As  she  sat  in  the  porch  above  him, 

With  the  web  half-spun  in  her  fingers  fair, 

And  a  ray  of  the  sun  in  her  brown,  brown  hair ; 

"  Oh,  would  I  might  see  my  love,"  sang  she, 
"  My  love  that  knows  not  I  love  him." 


8O  SONGS   AT   THE   START. 

Then  as  their  eyes  met,  with  a  start  I  forget 
Whether  shame,  or  delight,  or  sorrow, 

The  sky  in  its  glow  seemed  to  interest  her, 

And  he  bent  very  low  to  fasten  his  spur ; 

But  "  Oh,  would  I  might  see  my  love," — dear  me ! 
They  sang  it  no  more  till  the  morrow. 


8i 


ON   NOT  READING   A   POSTHUMOUS 
WORK.* 

THEY  stirred  the  carven  agate  door 
Back  from  the  cloisters,  where  of  yore 
One  toiled  by  night,  and  toiling,  kept 

The  starlight  on  his  bended  head : 
"  O  enter  with  us,  straight  and  free, 
The  master's  place  of  mystery ; 
Had  he  not  gone  beyond  the  sea, 

He  would  have  bid  us  come,"  they  said. 

But  from  the  threshold  hushed  and  gray 
The  loiterer  turned,  and  made  his  way 
From  arch  to  arch,  and  answered  low, 
Pale  with  some  ever-deepening  dread  : 

*  Hawthorne's  "  Doctor  Grimshawe." 


82  SONGS  AT    THE   START. 

"  What  he  once  promised  to  unfold, 
Without  him,  how  shall  I  behold  ? 

0  enter  you  whose  hearts  are  bold ; 

My  heart  hath  failed  me  here,"  he  said, 

Thou  dead  magician,  be  it  so ! 

1  close  thy  pages,  and  forego 
The  beauty  other  men  may  scan 

With  much  of  awe  and  tenderness ; 
And  if  this  blessing  half-divine, 
With  gracious  sorrow  I  resign 
To  faith  that  firmer  is  than  mine, 

Thou  knowest  if  I  love  thee  less ! 


BESSY   IN   THE   STORM. 

"  WHY  come  ye  in  with  tresses  wild, 

With  baffling  winds  aweary, 
All  damp  and  cold,  my  bonny  girl, 
My  deary  ? 

"  The  sun  not  yet  has  oped  his  lids, 
The  clouds  hold  fast  together  ; 
Why  stirred  ye  out  this  angry  morn, 
And  whither  ? " 

"  O  mother  mine  !  mayhap  I  rose 

To  fetch  the  gillyflower, 
Or  soothe  my  sister's  little  son 
An  hour ; 


84  SONGS  AT   THE    START. 

"  Or  else  I  led  a  bleating  lamb, 
Strayed  off  from  any  other, 
Or  went  to  pray  at  break  of  day, 
Sweet  mother ! " 

"  My  Bess,  my  lass,  deceive  me  not ; 

So  long  it  had  not  taken." 
"  O  no  ;  O  no  !  I  did  for  grief 
Awaken. 

"  My  true  love  never  you  have  seen, 
Down  by  the  ships  I  found  him ; 
In  all  the  gale,  I  held  mine  arms 
Around  him. 

"  He  spake  to  me,  he  kissed  me  thrice, 

And  sailed  the  seas  a-mourning  ; 
And  then  my  tears  rained  with  the  rain 
Returning." 


AFTER   A   DUEL. 

"In  fair  and  discreet  manhood;   that  is,  civilly,  by  the 
sword."  —  Ben  Jonson. 

BY  laurels  upon  your  brow 

New-placed,  our  worth  is  reckoned : 

You  are  a  hero  now, 

And  I,  —  a  dead  man's  second. 

Your  prowess  was  most  fair, 

And  fairer  yet  I  own  it ; 
A  majesty  lies  there, 

And  you  have  overthrown  it. 

To  dexterous  hands  was  given 

Your  weapon  giant-hewing  ; 
The  lightning  out  from  heaven 

Had  scarcely  dared  its  doing ! 


86  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

For  balm  on  wounds  aghast 
Supreme  in  you  my  trust  is ; 

Solicitous  to  the  last, 

Your  pity  tempered  justice. 

Thanks,  to  my  final  breath, 

For  challenge,  thrust,  and  parry. 

With  this  pale  weight  of  death 
Your  living  praise  I  carry. 

I  see  no  hate  abhorr'd, 

But  courtesy  acting  thro'  you : 
The  Devil,  sweet  my  lord, 

Be  thus  considerate  to  you  ! 

In  honor,  after  a  lapse, 

Dare  you  to  combat  sprightly, 

Thenceforth  you  chance  mishaps 
To  superintend,  —  politely. 


INDIFFERENCE. 

As  once  in  a  town  thro'  the  twilight  pleasant 

A  belfry  chorus  majestic  rose, 
While  our  talk  ran  on,  and  the  good  lamp  glis- 
tened, 

And  nothing  you  recked,  rapt  soul !  but  listened, 
And  followed  on  truant  wing  incessant 
After  the  chime  to  its  silvern  close ; 

So  later,  when  over  your  gentle  pages, 

The  harsh  world  wronged  you  with  scorn  and 

sting, 

By  the  far-away  joy  in  your  blue  eye  growing, 
I  knew  that  beyond  these  ill  winds  blowing, 
You  heard,  my  Poet !  the  praise  of  the  ages  ; 
Only  and  ever  you  heard  them  sing. 


88 


THE  PLEDGING. 

"  WE  buried  a  loving  heart  to-day ; 
We  miss  his  coming  over  the  way, 

The  toss  of  his  hair,  his  laughter's  ring ; 

"  The  radiant  presence  gone  from  earth  ; 
The  serious  eyes  that  could  shine  with  mirth, 
The  luminous  brain,  the  hand  of  a  king ; 

"  So,  losing  him  as  we  did,  I  say 
Fill  up  the  goblets,  and  glad  and  gay 

On  his  lonely  road  we  will  drink  him  cheer : 

"  Health  to  the  fine  old  friend  we  knew  ! 
Peace  to  his  slumbers  under  the  dew  ! 
Hail  to  his  memory  kind  and  dear ! 


THE   PLEDGING.  89 

"  And  for  second  pledge,  fill  up  to  the  brim  ; 
(Laugh  lightly,  what  if  our  eyes  be  dim  ! ) 
Here's  to  the  first  that  shall  follow  him." 

The  sun  ran  riot  across  the  floor ; 
Pomegranate-blossoms  swung  by  the  door  ; 
Blithe  robins  lit  on  the  ivied  sill : 

The  voice  in  the  gurgle  of  wine  was  lost ; 
Up  from  the  board  were  the  beakers  tossed  ; 
Loud  clashed  their  rims  with  a  royal  will. 

And  he,  the  youngest,  that  swayed  them  erst, 
Poured  yet  again,  like  a  man  athirst : 

"  To  the  first  who  follows  we  drink,  we  three ! " 

Sudden  beside  him  Another  stood, 
So  sudden,  he  fell  as  the  sandal-wood 
Sinks  when  the  axe  is  laid  to  the  tree  : 

But  the  Shadow  lifted  his  cup  instead 

With  the  old  quick  smile,  and  the  toss  of  the 

head  : 
"Franz !  thou  art  the  first  to  follow!"  he  said. 


AT   GETTYSBURG. 

BELLS  of  victory  are  dumb  ; 
Trailing  sword  and  muffled  drum 
On  we  come, 

Downcast  eyes  and  broken  tread, 
Weary  arms,  and  burdened 
With  our  dead. 

Lives  were  proffered  :  reck  not  his  ; 
For  dear  Freedom's  ransom  is 
Sacrifice. 

Proud  our  love  is,  nor  at  last 
With  a  sorrow  that  is  past 
Overcast. 


AT   GETTYSBURG.  9! 

O'er  the  very  clay  we  bring, 
Meet  it  is  that  we  should  sing 
Triumphing : 

He  was  foremost,  he  was  leal ; 
Let  his  gallant  breast  reveal 
Honor's  seal. 

Him  we  yield  the  Roman  crown, 
Woven  bays  ;  in  his  renown 
Lay  him  down. 

Earth  will  softest  pillow  make, 
So  that  never  heart  shall  ache 
For  his  sake  ; 

Spring  will  pass  here  many  a  day, 
Sighing,  one  with  thoughts  that  pray 
Far  away, 

"  When  the  trumpets  shake  the  sod, 
Raise  Thy  Knight  from  this  dull  clod, 
Lord  our  God  !  " 


EARLY    DEATH. 

A  YOUNG  bird  fell  last  night  across  the  dark 
And  was  not.     In  the  willow  hung  its  nest ; 
But  yesterday,  with  proud  and  beating  breast, 
From  bough  to  bough  it  crossed  a  fairy  arc  ; 
Among  its  kindred  barely  did  we  hark 
Its  first  delightful  carol,  or  note  the  crest 
Grow  into  golden-violet  loveliest  ; 
There  was  no  dial  in  our  thought  to  mark 
The  sealed  possibilities  of  days, 
The  unwrought  miracle  of  happy  singing : 
And  now,  tho'  newly  fail  our  earthly  sense, 
Elsewhere  that  delicate  intelligence 
Bursts  into  blossom  of  harmonious  lays, 
All  summer  on  a  comely  tree-top  swinging. 


93 


MY   SOPRANO. 

(H.  L.) 

LOVING  her,  what  should  I  fail  to  do  for  her  ?  — 
Keep  season  on  season  sunny  and  blue  for  her, 
Lengthen  her  days  like  a  happy  tale, 
With  thoughts  all  tender  and  hearts  all  true  for 
her, 

Ward  her  from  trouble,  good  tidings  bring  to 

her; 
Fight  for  her,  laugh  with  her,  comfort  her,  cling 

to  her, 

But  if  I  were  even  a  nightingale, 
I  wonder  —  if  I  should  dare  to  sing  to  her ! 


94 


THE   CROSS   ROADS. 

OUT  from  the  prison  at  twilight, 
With  stealthy,  terrible  swiftness, 
Darted  one  of  the  branded,  life  beating  in  every 

vein; 

Freedom  stirring  his  pulses, 
Gladness  and  fear  and  longing 
Surging   thro'   brain   and   body   with   precious 
unwonted  pain. 

Out  from  the  damp,  dark  cell, 
The  shackles,  the  sorrowful  silence, 
Out  from  the  ring  of  faces  and  the  jarring  of 

stern  commands, 

Forth  to  the  scent  of  the  meadows, 
The  glisten  of  garrulous  brooklets, 
And  the  dim,  kindly, evening  he  blessed  with 
his  weary  hands. 


THE    CROSS  ROADS.  95 

On,  like  the  sweep  of  a  scimitar 
Dashed  he,  cutting  the  darkness, 
Or  as  the  storm  blows  on,  none  knowing  its 

way  or  its  will ; 
Cumbered  with  horrible  fears, 
Leaped  he  the  perilous  ledges 
Reaching   the   village   that   lay  in   the   valley, 
untroubled  and  still. 

Midway  of  his  sickening  haste, 
Sudden  he  faltered  and  moaned, 
Seeing  three  stand  by  a  window,  as  the  breeze 

loitering  blew ; 

A  woman  sad-featured  and  patient, 
Two  golden  heads  at  her  shoulder, 
Dear  eyes  he  made  shine  once  —  dear  childish 
hair  that  he  knew  ! 

Not  yet,  for  surely  the  bloodhounds 
Would  track  him  thither  to-morrow  ; 
Not  yet !  tho'   soon  that  door  should  open,  as 
long  ago  : 


96  SONGS  AT    THE    START. 

Dashing  the  tear  from  his  cheeks, 
The  bronze,  rough  cheeks  that  it  hallowed, 
He  rushed   on.     Had   they  seen  it,   the  poor, 
wan  face  ?     Did  they  know  ? 

x 

Here  meet  the  roads  :  see,  eastways, 
The  long,  clear  track  to  the  forest, 
There,  with  chestnuts  shaded,  the  path  to  the 

inland  town  : 

Behind,  a  glimpse  of  the  village, 
Front  — four  sharp  cliffs  to  the  ocean  ; 
Quickly,   which   shall  he  choose  ?     Hark !    the 
captors  are  hunting  him  down ! 

Shuffle  of  hurrying  feet, 
Breathings  nearer  and  nearer. 
No  choice  for   a  man  that  is  doomed,  unless 

straight  to  the  merciful  sea. 
Up  to  the  toilsome  cliffs  ! 
Better  death  than  new  anguish ! 
A  cry,  a  plunge  .  .  .  shine,  stars,  on  the  rip- 
ples that  ring  that  sea. 


THE    CROSS  ROADS.  97 

Soft  in  the  ominous  shadow  the  branches  stir 

by  the  meadow, 
Fair  in  the  lonely  distance  the  dying  household 

glow ; 

Deep  in  the  dust  of  the  street, 
Just  where  the  four  roads  meet, 
Two  trembling  forms  where  he  stood  a  moment 

so; 

And  a  wistful  child's  voice  said, 
Touched  with  great  trouble  and  dread  : 
"  O  little  sister  !  which  way  did  father  go  ? " 


98 


"HEART   OF   GOLD." 

LADY  serene,  benign, 
This  dainty  name  of  mine, 
Pride  in  my  bashful  eyes 

Bending  to  see, 
With  your  look  eloquent, 
Oft  for  glad  service  lent, 
Laughingly,  lovingly, 

Gave  you  to  me. 

Generous  gift  bestowed  ! 

Lofty  desert  avowed  ! 

Queen  and  true  Knight  indeed 

Played  we  those  days  ; 
All  of  my  faith  unspent, 
Full  of  my  child's  content, 
Shyly,  yet  haughtily, 

Wore  I  your  praise. 


"HEART   OF    GOLD:1 

O  for  that  happy  sport 
Once  in  your  mimic  court ! 
O  for  your  voice  again, 

Lips  silenced ! 
O  for  the  olden  name 
Ere  disillusion  came  ; 
O  for  "  the  golden  heart," 

Too,  that  is  dead  ! 


99 


IOO 


A  JACOBITE   REVIVAL. 

ONE  voice  I  heard  of  a  ghostly  horde, 
About  a  visionary  board, 

That  said, 

While  goblets  filled  with  ruby-red  : 
"  Can  you  remember,  good  my  lord, 

"  Among  the  newer  creeds  and  laws, 
The  unrevived,  pathetic  cause 

Of  kings  ? 

Can  you  remember  all  such  things  ? 
How  long,  how  long  ago  it  was ! 

"  What  is  the  story  ?     Rivets  loose, 
Superb  contrivance  ;  fainter  use  ; 

For  years, 

Allegiance,  consecrate  with  tears, 
Sad  loyalty,  its  own  excuse  ; 


A  JACOBITE   REVIVAL.  IOI 

"  A  morning  faith  magnificent ; 
Defiance  breaking  ;  ardor  spent 

And  pains 

For  royal  blood  thro'  dwindled  veins, 
Half-clogged  with  dust  of  dull  content, 

"But  weak  not  wholly;  for  there  burst 
In  the  last  scion,  battle-nursed, 

Such  scope 

Of  rich  emprise,  that  our  rash  hope 
Wrote  him  not  last,  indeed,  but  first. 

"  For  our  true  liege  folk  mocked  at  ease, 
And  chartered  foes,  and  crossed  the  seas : 

Behold  ! 

Where  are  they  now,  the  gaps,  the  old 
Delicious  taunts  and  enmities  ? 

"  Then,  troops  of  gallant  gentlemen 
That  passed  by  night  o'er  field  and  fen, 

Did  shout 

t  Townward,  lusty  and  loud  throughout  : 
1  When  the  King  comes  back  to  hi's  own  again.' 


IO2  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

"  Then  rose  a  prayer,  heart-tremulous, 
Near  many  an  heir,  in  many  a  house, 

Asleep : 

'  O  kindly  Heaven  !  do  thou  but  keep 
Our  children  rebels  after  us  ! ' 

"  Then  sailors  landing  from  the  fleet, 
Idling  wits  in  a  sunny  street, 

And  sirs 

With  trim-clipp'd  beards  and  rattling  spurs 
Met,  swearing  fealty  :  so  we  meet. 

"  And  since  the  stars,  and  you,  and  I 
Have  seen  the  cycle  rolling  by, 

And  know 

That  right  is  right,  thro'  flower  and  snow, 
Why  then,  give  still  the  wonted  cry  :  — 

"  Here  's  to  the  proud,  forgotten  names, 
Here  's  to  the  Stuart,  Charles  and  James  ! 

Ah  me! 

Full  few  that  live  so  long  as  we 
Fan  older  love  to  steadier  flames. 


A  JACOBITE  REVIVAL. 

"  Here 's  to  our  fathers,  Cavaliers  ; 
Their  noble  toil,  their  patient  years 

That  bore 

A  burden  precious  now  no  more  : 
So  may  they  rest  in  happier  spheres. 

"  And  here  's  our  benison  for  her 
Who  doth  the  forfeit  sceptre  stir ; 

A  toast 

Late  in  the  day,  and  welcome  most : 
Death  and  doom  to  Hanover  !  " 

Now  this  I  heard  from  comrades  dead, 
And  vowed  Amen  to  all  they  said, 

And  rose 

With  fair  intent  to  draw  more  close ; 
But  like  the  forest  deer  they  fled. 


IO4 


SPRING. 

"  With  a  difference."  —  HAMLET. 

AGAIN  the  bloom,  the  northward  flight, 
The  fount  freed  at  its  silver  height, 
And  down  the  deep  woods  to  the  lowest, 
The  fragrant  shadows  scarred  with  light. 

O  inescapeable  joy  of  spring ! 
For  thee  the  world  shall  leap  and  sing ; 
But  by  her  darkened  door  thou  goest 
Forever  as  a  spectral  thing. 


IDS 


ADVENTURERS. 

WHEN  we  were  children,  at  our  will, 

That  vanished  summer  blithe  and  free, 
Dear  shipmate  !  how  we  loved  to  float 
Thro'  wind  and  calm,  in  a  little  boat, 
All  alone  on  the  sparkling  sea ! 

One  morn,  defying  storms  we  sailed 
And  sang  our  Credo,  you  and  I  — 
"  Beyond  the  foam,  the  surge,  the  mist, 
The  sea-fog's  moving  amethyst, 
The  peaceful  fairy  islands  lie." 

And  far  we  urged  the  forward  prow, 

Half-mad  with  longing  as  we  hied ; 
Yet  at  the  sunset's  dying  glow 
Faint-hearted,  ceased,  and  homewards  so 
Came  meekly  with  the  evening  tide. 


IO6  SONGS   AT    THE   START. 

Surely,  the  Isles  of  Rest  were  near ! 

Why  did  our  childish  ardor  tire  ? 
Now  more,  oh,  more  the  thousandth  time 
We  thirst  for  that  celestial  clime, 

We  hunger  with  that  old  desire. 

Some  day,  when  we  shall  sail  again, 

The  home-lights  late  indeed  may  burn  ; 
Let  signals  flutter  on  the  shore, 
Let  tides  creep  up  to  the  open  door, 
But  with  no  tide  shall  we  return. 


L'ETIQUETTE. 

NEVER  one  in  your  kingdom,  my  queen, 
Who  stands  in  your  presence  serene, 
Would  take  the  first  step  less  or  more, 
Or  pose  otherwise  on  the  floor, 
Or  bend  a  whit  deeper  the  knee, 
Or  speak  but  as  low  as  can  be, 
And  then  at  your  royal  command ; 
And  never  a  lord  in  the  land 
Would  stir  the  fine  blade  in  its  sheath, 
Or  a  marchioness  rustle  her  wreath, 
Or  a  page  grow  too  lean  or  too  stout 
For  fear  of  an  exile,  no  doubt. 
And  yet  I  remember  the  first 
Thro'  order  and  system  to  burst, 
Old  freedom  of  ways  to  reclaim, 
Was  that  blithe  little  fellow  who  came 


108  SONGS   AT    THE    START. 

To  the  arras  majestic  one  day, 
In  his  lace  and  his  velvet  array, 
And  rioted  gallantly  round, 
And  talked  of  his  horse  and  his  hound, 
And  gave  milord's  buckler  a  clang 
And  leaped  o'er  the  marbles,  and  sang, 
And  laughed  in  barbarian  glee, 
Disturbing  your  stately  levee  ;  — 
Till  the  horrified  ladies  came  down 
And  bore  him  away,  at  your  frown. 


That  was  a  twelvemonth  ago. 
You  sit  there  as  placid  as  snow : 
In  ease  and  politeness  and  state, 
The  court  holds  its  doings  of  late, 
With  nothing  to  vex  with  a  qualm 
That  formal,  respectable  calm. 
Patrician  reproofs  are  forgot, 
Since  further  ill-doers  are  not. 


DE  TIQ  UETTE.  1 09 

Liege  lady  !  say,  what  would  you  give 

Henceforward  as  long  as  you  live, 

For  the  roguish  soft  clutch  at  your  hair, 

The  capers  and  curvets  in  air, 

The  laughter's  wild  musical  flow, 

That  you  frowned  at  a  twelvemonth  ago  ? 


no 


THE  GRAVE  AND  THE  ROSE. 

[Translated  from  Victor  Hugo.'} 

WHISPERS  the  grave  to  the  rose : 
"  With  the  dew  that  the  dawn  bestows, 
What  dost  thou,  love's  darling  blossom  ? " 
And  the  rose  to  the  grave  soft  saith  : 
"  And  thou,  dread  abyss  of  death, 
With  them  in  thine  awful  bosom  ?  " 
But  answers  :  "  Mystical  tomb, 
From  the  dew  I  exhale  in  the  gloom 
Mine  odor  of  amber  and  spices." 
Then  the  grave  :  "  Ah,  querulous  flower  ! 
Even  so  from  each  heart  in  my  power 
An  angel  to  Heaven  arises." 


I 


